by Ruth Langan
Inside, several chairs draped with animal hides were positioned around a blazing fire. Lord Waltham and his daughter held a whispered conference before she turned to speak to a servant. That done, her father held a chair for her beside the fire. Immediately, Alger Blakely placed himself beside her in a proprietary manner.
“Sit and warm yourselves,” Lord Waltham called to his guests.
As the three Highlanders took their seats, a servant offered them tankards of ale, which remained untouched until Lord Waltham took the first sip. When Dillon determined that the ale had not been poisoned, he signaled his younger brothers, who eagerly began to drink. The tankards were quickly emptied. Another servant passed around trays of bread soaked in wine, which soon restored their spirits.
Lord Waltham sipped his ale and watched them with interest. His daughter, too uncomfortable in the presence of these strangers to eat or drink, merely watched in silence.
“Was it a difficult journey?” the Duke of Essex asked.
“Nay.” Dillon stretched out his long legs toward the fire, enjoying the heat that settled in his belly after the first fiery swallow of ale. If the English hoped to render them helplessly drunk, they would have to do better than this swill. In the monastery where he’d been raised, the monks made the finest ale and spirits in all of Scotland. It was a common drink with every meal. “After a life in the Highlands, a journey of several days over your gentle countryside is child’s play.”
“You are not weary?” Lord Waltham lifted a brow in astonishment, knowing his soldiers would find such a journey daunting.
“Nay. Perhaps, if we had to journey all the way to your king’s home in London, we would feel the need to refresh ourselves. But this required no more effort than we would make on any day in the Highlands.”
“I have heard of your Highlands.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, Leonora felt the heat of Dillon’s gaze and cursed herself for her foolishness. She had not wanted to call attention to herself. And now the man was studying her with great intensity. She was aware only of his eyes, dark and compelling, fixed on her.
“And what have you heard, my lady?”
She glanced at her father, who smiled his encouragement. After the death of his wife, his only child had been his constant companion at court. With her fine mind, she had proved to be a valuable asset when dealing with affairs of state. Even the king had commented on her ability to mingle with her father’s worldly friends. He was confident she would have no problem with these simple Highlanders.
“I have heard they are—” she licked her lips “—quite untamed.”
“Aye.” Dillon sipped his ale and considered his words before speaking. “That they are. Untamed. A bonny land.”
Hearing the passion in his tone, she felt a shiver along her spine. Bonny. It was as if he were speaking about a woman. A beautiful, desirable woman.
“Robert the Bruce must set great store by you to have appointed you his spokesman.” The bishop studied Dillon who lounged carelessly in his chair. Though surrounded by English swords, the man seemed completely at ease. Could the rumors be true? Did these Highlanders truly know no fear?
“Rob knows that my word is my bond.”
“The question is,” the Duke of Essex said with a sneer, “will your fellow Scotsmen consider your word binding?”
Dillon’s expression never changed. His words were spoken so softly everyone in the room had to strain to hear. But all were aware of the thread of steel in his tone. And a thickening of the burr with each passionate word. “I would not be here if it were not so.”
“Aye.” Lord Waltham stepped forward, eager to smooth things over. It would not do to end this meeting of the two warring countries before it even began. What was needed to soothe this tension was a woman’s healing touch. “If you have had sufficient ale, my daughter, Leonora, will show you to your chambers.”
Leonora shot her father a pleading glance, but he turned away, deliberately ignoring her. If the look was lost on Lord Waltham, it did not go unnoticed by Dillon. He would have found it amusing, were it not so insulting. It was obvious the lady would have rather faced a den of wildcats than lead him and his brothers to their chambers.
“I will accompany the lady,” Alger Blakely said eagerly.
“Nay, Alger.” Lord Waltham gave him a warning look. Turning to Dillon, he said, “If there is anything you desire, you need only ask. We will sup at dusk. A servant will be sent to fetch you.”
“My lord. Your grace.” Dillon bowed slightly before turning to follow Leonora from the room, with his brothers trailing.
They climbed a graceful curve of stairs to an upper level. As they walked, they studied the walls lined with tapestries. Everywhere they looked, servants scurried about, polishing sconces or carrying armloads of linen. It was clear evidence of a well-ordered and opulent existence.
Dillon’s attention was fixed on the lady in front of him. Even at Edinburgh, the seat of power in his country, he had not seen a female so richly gowned. The fabric shimmered in the light of the candles. With each sway of her hips, he found himself more and more fascinated by the feminine contours hidden beneath the voluminous skirts. Her hair, secured by gold netting, bobbed primly at her shoulders. His fists clenched at his sides as he found himself wondering what those raven curls would look like when set free to cascade past her waist. Almost at once he chastised himself for such foolish thoughts.
Leonora paused before huge double doors. Throwing them open she stepped inside a sitting room and motioned for the servants to leave. Seeing the strangers, they bowed from the room, leaving behind the proof of their diligence. A fire blazed on the hearth. Several chaises had been positioned around it for comfort. On a table were a flagon of ale and goblets of hammered gold.
“Is this to be our bedchamber?” Sutton asked, opening a second door.
“Aye. It is one of several,” Leonora called to his retreating back. He had already disappeared inside, with his twin brother behind him.
A few moments later Sutton and Shaw returned to the sitting room holding aloft brightly colored garments. “Look, Dillon. These were draped across the beds. Feel how fine and soft is the cloth.”
Dillon glanced at the garments with a frown of distaste. “You have no need of such things, my brothers. Return them to the lady Leonora.”
“But—”
“At once.” His tone was abrupt.
As they reluctantly handed them over, Dillon turned to the young woman. “What was the reason for this?”
“We had heard…” She bit her lip and wondered how to proceed tactfully. She couldn’t possibly tell him that she had pitied him his coarse garments. She had requested permission of her father to furnish him and his brothers with something more befitting their sumptuous surroundings and their lofty position as representatives of their country. Nor could she tell him of the rumors she had heard, of savage Highlanders who would be nearly naked even in the company of women. “We had heard that your journey would be long and difficult. I thought you might desire a change of clothing.”
He never altered his tone, but his words had the sharp sting of a whip. “We are Highland warriors, my lady. Our clothes may appear to you to be coarse and simple, but they were woven with love.” He thought of the hours his sister and the nuns at the abbey had spent at the loom, weaving the cloth of green and blue and black that so pleased him because it reminded him of the green glens of his beloved Highlands, the blue of the heather that blossomed on the meadows and the black of the rich Scottish soil. “Would you deny us our heritage and turn us into peacocks like your countrymen below stairs?”
“Nay. I did not mean…” Feeling her cheeks flush, she lowered her gaze. “Forgive me. I meant no harm. I will send a servant to fetch the garments you are wearing. I assure you they will be clean and dry in time to sup.”
His Scottish burr thickened, the only sign that his anger still simmered. “There is no need. We may be simple, but we are not savages. We
have brought other clothes. If you will be good enough to send a servant to the stables, they are with our horses.”
“As you wish.” She backed away, eager to escape this harsh, angry man who made her feel so uncomfortable.
He would not allow her to flee so easily. He walked with her to the door and held it open. As she moved past him, her breast came into contact with his arm, sending a tingling sensation clear to her toes. She felt a rush of heat that had nothing to do with the warmth of the fireplace. Feeling the way his gaze burned over her, she lowered her head to hide the betraying blush that she knew was on her cheeks.
“A servant will summon you when it is time to sup.”
“You are most kind, my lady.”
Most kind indeed. She gritted her teeth as she hurried away. That infuriating Highlander had just made a mockery of her attempt at hospitality. And for that, she would never forgive him.
Chapter Two
The great hall was filled with the rumble of masculine voices, all raised in speculation about the Highlanders. At one end of the room stood the soldiers, who swapped stories about their battles with the fearsome Scots warriors. At the other end, in front of a roaring fire, stood Lord Waltham and the English noblemen.
Leonora stood beside her father, awaiting the arrival of their guests. Over Moira’s objections, she had taken great pains with her appearance. Her gown of red velvet had a low, square neckline and fitted bodice. A girdle of lace defined her tiny waist and hips. The voluminous skirt, gathered here and there with clusters of jewels, fell to the tips of kid slippers. The sleeves, inset with ermine, were full to the elbow, then tapered to points at each wrist. At her throat was a delicate filigree of gold interspersed with diamonds and rubies. Matching earrings dangled from her lobes.
The last time Leonora had looked so splendid, she had been in the presence of the king. Though her nurse had argued that such finery was wasted on the savage Highlander, Leonora would not be dissuaded. She would make Dillon Campbell regret that he had rejected her hospitality. When he arrived in his coarse garments, he would find himself surrounded by luxury such as he’d never imagined.
Alger Blakely bowed over her hand. “You look lovely, my lady.”
His father beamed his approval as his son continued to hold Leonora’s hand longer than was necessary. Lord James Blakely was aware of his host’s vast wealth and sprawling estates. The lady’s dowry was rumored to equal that of royalty. And of even more importance was her father’s close friendship with the king. The man who won Leonora Waltham’s hand would inherit great power. His son had all the qualities necessary to win a lady’s heart. Alger was strong of limb and fair of face. It was James’s intention to see that the two become betrothed before his son was sent back into battle.
“Such beauty will surely dazzle the Highlanders in our midst,” James said softly.
Lord Waltham gave his daughter an admiring glance. “Aye. It pleases me that you have taken such pains with your appearance, my dear.” He drew her close and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I know that these Highlanders frighten you, but it is the wish of our monarch that we establish bonds of friendship. It is imperative that we find a peaceful solution to our differences, or we will find our fair English knights facing them on a field of battle.”
“Aye,” James said. “Including my beloved son Alger.”
Leonora shivered at the thought of anyone having to face such giants.
Seeing it, her father nodded. “They would be formidable foes indeed, my dear. It is far better that we offer our hands instead of our swords.”
“Do you truly intend to befriend these buffoons?” The Duke of Essex lifted a goblet of ale to his lips.
“Aye.” Lord Waltham felt a ripple of annoyance at the man’s open display of hostility. “As one who enjoys the king’s friendship, Essex, you know the importance of this meeting.”
“I would as soon put a dagger to their throats as sup with them.”
“Then you should have made your feelings known to the king before you agreed to come here.”
“And miss the opportunity to see for myself what these savages look like?” The duke emptied his goblet and looked around at the others, who chuckled in agreement. “I wonder that Edward would even waste our time on the likes of them. We would do better to put them in a pen with the swine. Mayhap then they could draw up a treaty with those of their own kind.”
Even the bishop couldn’t stifle his laughter at such a remark. “They are indeed a ragged band. I wonder that our monarch would give a care to such beggars.” He turned to Lord Blakely and Alger. “You two have faced their kind in battle. What say you? Are the Highlanders fearsome warriors? Or is it all a myth?”
“It is no myth,” Alger said. “I have never faced more worthy opponents.” Seeing that he had Leonora’s attention, he couldn’t help boasting, “Not that I fear them, your grace. I would welcome the chance to meet the Highlanders in battle again. Mayhap I could teach them a thing or two about handling a sword.”
“But this is not a field of battle.” The duke plucked another goblet from a serving wench’s tray. “Prowess with a sword will not serve them in good stead here. What is needed to draw up a peace treaty is a fine mind, and—” he winked slyly at the others “—judging by the three in our midst, the Highlanders are sadly lacking in that. Could it be that the bigger a man is, the smaller is his brain?”
While the duke and bishop laughed, Lord Waltham said softly, “I would not be so eager to dismiss these strangers. Robert the Bruce could have chosen any number of men to represent him. They may appear rough and crude to us, but I would caution you to treat them with the same respect you would give their leader.”
“This is the only respect I give the Bruce.” The Duke of Essex touched a hand to the sword at his side.
Leonora saw the smiles fade abruptly from the faces of several of the men. She turned to see the three Highlanders standing directly behind her. It would have been impossible for them to avoid overhearing the crude remarks made about them.
How long had they been standing there? How much had they heard?
Dillon’s features showed no emotion. His younger brothers, however, who were not as schooled in diplomacy, wore identical scowls. When Sutton’s hand went to the knife hidden at his waist, Dillon hastily put his hand over his brother’s to still his movements.
“Nay,” he said softly. “Now is not the time.”
“But Dillon, they utter calumny—”
Dillon placed his arm around his brother’s shoulders, effectively pinning the younger man’s arms at his sides. Drawing him close, he murmured, “You must learn to be patient with fools, Sutton.”
His reactions, as well as his words, were not lost on the English, who watched in stunned silence. Only Lord Waltham showed any remorse.
“Forgive us,” he said. “We did not see you enter the hall.”
“That was obvious.” Dillon’s eyes narrowed as he studied each man. Anger seethed within him, but he had learned long ago to give nothing of his thoughts away. The English, in turn, looked away rather than face his accusing stares.
Despite the turmoil he might have felt, Dillon bowed slightly and caught Leonora’s hand in his. “Good even, my lady.”
As his lips grazed her knuckles, she felt the rush of heat and blamed it on the blaze on the hearth. Looking at him through her thick veil of lashes, she prayed he couldn’t detect the color that flooded her cheeks.
He had shaved. Without the ragged growth of beard, his face, despite the scar, was indeed handsome. His brow was firm, his face graced with a straight, even nose, wide firm lips and an angular jaw. He wore a saffron shirt of soft lawn, and on his legs, black hose. Over these he wore a loose garment woven of cloth of blue and green and black that fell to below his knees, with a matching length of fabric tossed rakishly over one shoulder like a cape, and fastened by a clasp of hammered gold. Little droplets of water still glistened like diamonds in his russet hair.
Hi
s brothers were dressed in similar fashion.
Though Leonora had never before seen such a manner of dress, she had to grudgingly admit to herself that these Highlanders looked splendid. Tall. Rugged. Earthy. By comparison, the English looked like…The phrase Dillon had tossed at her with such sarcasm rushed to mind. Peacocks.
“Ale, my lords?” A serving wench held a tray of goblets aloft.
“Aye. Thank you.” As the three Highlanders accepted the goblets, Leonora saw the servant’s admiring gaze move slowly over each man, and linger on Dillon’s rugged face.
“That will be all, Verda.” Leonora spoke a little too sharply, and found herself wondering at the sudden flash of feeling. Jealousy? She immediately dismissed such a ridiculous thought. She had never before given a care to the flirtations that passed between the servants and guests in her father’s house. And surely these men meant nothing to her. “You may begin to help serve the meal.”
The servant turned away with a pout.
When Dillon turned to look at her, Leonora felt the flush rise to her cheeks once more. She had the distinct impression that he could read her mind, and that he was laughing at her. This only served to stiffen her spine and deepen her frown.
“I trust your chambers are comfortable,” Lord Waltham asked.
“Most comfortable.” Dillon sipped the ale to give himself time to bank his still-simmering temper. He was well aware that these English had been making sport of him and his brothers. That didn’t bother him nearly as much as the thought that such feelings would spill over to include all his countrymen. That he would never allow. If they were to agree to a peace between them, it must be worked out in an atmosphere of mutual respect.
Respect. He sensed that the Duke of Essex had been deliberately attempting to goad him and his brothers into a fight. The temptation to comply with the duke’s wish had been almost overpowering. Still, Dillon knew that a battle, though the simplest solution, would shatter their fragile attempts at peace.
